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A man knelt by a freshly dug, empty grave. His long silver hair was braided behind his back. His battered armor was dull, and he wore a thick coat of black and white furs over a finely made leather jerkin. The trails of scars that wove around his body spoke more truth of his life than he ever would. His scabbard hung empty at his hip.
The darkening sky warned of a coming storm. He could taste iron on the wind. He did not care- he would be gone from this place long before it ever came. A small gathering of aging men stood behind him, each with an empty scabbard. Just beside him lay their collected swords, all well-made, the shining weaponry of kings.
The field was lush with long grass, though the gently sloping land was made gloomy by the threat of the storm. It looked very different from the way he remembered it, when unblooded boys and bloodied men writhed beneath the hooves of frothing horses. Fleeing warriors tripped over the limbs of their brothers to collapse in the mud.
It looked different from the day when his son was hanged from an ancient tree. He looked now at the same tree, and could almost see the body of his eldest boy swinging from its thickest bough.
“Braddon,” he spoke to the man who stood just behind him.
“Yes, my king?” Braddon responded with respect, though a king himself.
“Fetch the priest.” he commanded.
He watched Braddon leave to bring the priest. He would speak with the priest before he gave his heart away. Presently, the priest came. A young man, though a hardened one, he placed a hand on the shoulder of his old, tired king.
“You should sleep,” the priest murmured. “You are very old”.
The very old king wondered if God would forgive him if he punched the Lord’s holy man in the balls.
“I once told the Mercian king to fuck off,” the old king said. “And nothing came of it. And Charlemagne? Friend to Myrce, a fabled man, he had so many in awe. I met him once. He paid me a compliment. I never expected that.”
“You’re wasting time,” the priest said.
“My sons were murdered for your God,” the old king reminded him.
“I remember you telling me, not long ago, that you made a fort on the river,” the priest said. “Made it from the bones of a Roman fort. Though stolen, it served you well. You made it a home. Had fat babies with a fat woman. You had lust, and people noticed.”
The old king was tired of crouching. His feet ached; his thighs burned. He collapsed to the ground with a sigh.
“Are you going to say I brought this on myself?” he demanded.
“Aethalbad, king who wanted to be a dragon,” the priest said. “You’re a good Christian man, now. You get to feel like shit for everything.”
“Funny thing for a priest to say,” Aethalbad grumbled.
“You asked for me for a reason,” the priest reminded him. “Are you ready?”
“I don’t know where I’m going,” the old king confessed. He felt fear writhing in his stomach, and did not know how he could confess it to a man who seemed incapable of true feeling. He was old and his knees hurt. He was ready to admit that he was afraid.
“Probably hell,” the priest offered. “I saw you kill a rabid dog once. You said it reminded you of your raids on the churches. Putting down dogs.”
“I should tell you to fuck off, too,” Aethalbad said.
“Bury your swords, appease your demons, then sleep,” the priest said. “Or do tell me to fuck off and die with your whores. You don’t have to find God before you die. He doesn’t want you.”
“They took my sons in His name,” Aethalbad protested. “This is their sacred ground, their legacy. They’ve buried the treasures of their lives here, the gold and fine work of their best men. They buried their hoard where they slaughtered us. I should have stabbed their king in his fat gut when I shared his table.”
The priest lapsed into a rare silence. Aethalbad stared at the grave. A sinister rumble sounded from around them, vibrating as though it came from deep within the earth rather than from the violently dark sky above them.
“Are you ready?” the priest finally spoke again.
Aethalbad sighed. Groaning, and with great difficulty, he rose to his feet.
“I am.”
The priest began.
“I will keep it simple, for you are very old. I fear we do not have much time. “On this fifth day of July, on the day that Pothric, your first son, died as a Pagan, we bear witness to the christening of the warrior king, Aethalbad, in the name of Lord God. You and your son are reborn as servants of God.”
“I wrote that myself,” he bragged. “Had to. Not much precedence for buying your dead son’s soul with your life.”
Aethalbad smiled grimly. He stooped to pick up his sword from the heap. The priest thought he was old, that he intended to die of his age. Aethalbad had no such intention. Many of the men who had slain his sons had died, old men all. Their children remained, however, and the old men who survived would lose all faith in the continuation of their glory.
He would bring a plague to them, would bring a future of clashing swords, endless feuds, of blood that would change the color of the oceans. He would see the end of their fine kingdoms with a rot that would spread throughout their futures. With the sacrifice of his faith and his life, he would buy a dark future with his blood.
“What are you-“
“Your God likes sacrifice, doesn’t he?” Aethalbad asked. “Bury me with my son, under the hanging tree.”
He slid his sword into his heart’s embrace.
The darkening sky warned of a coming storm. He could taste iron on the wind. He did not care- he would be gone from this place long before it ever came. A small gathering of aging men stood behind him, each with an empty scabbard. Just beside him lay their collected swords, all well-made, the shining weaponry of kings.
The field was lush with long grass, though the gently sloping land was made gloomy by the threat of the storm. It looked very different from the way he remembered it, when unblooded boys and bloodied men writhed beneath the hooves of frothing horses. Fleeing warriors tripped over the limbs of their brothers to collapse in the mud.
It looked different from the day when his son was hanged from an ancient tree. He looked now at the same tree, and could almost see the body of his eldest boy swinging from its thickest bough.
“Braddon,” he spoke to the man who stood just behind him.
“Yes, my king?” Braddon responded with respect, though a king himself.
“Fetch the priest.” he commanded.
He watched Braddon leave to bring the priest. He would speak with the priest before he gave his heart away. Presently, the priest came. A young man, though a hardened one, he placed a hand on the shoulder of his old, tired king.
“You should sleep,” the priest murmured. “You are very old”.
The very old king wondered if God would forgive him if he punched the Lord’s holy man in the balls.
“I once told the Mercian king to fuck off,” the old king said. “And nothing came of it. And Charlemagne? Friend to Myrce, a fabled man, he had so many in awe. I met him once. He paid me a compliment. I never expected that.”
“You’re wasting time,” the priest said.
“My sons were murdered for your God,” the old king reminded him.
“I remember you telling me, not long ago, that you made a fort on the river,” the priest said. “Made it from the bones of a Roman fort. Though stolen, it served you well. You made it a home. Had fat babies with a fat woman. You had lust, and people noticed.”
The old king was tired of crouching. His feet ached; his thighs burned. He collapsed to the ground with a sigh.
“Are you going to say I brought this on myself?” he demanded.
“Aethalbad, king who wanted to be a dragon,” the priest said. “You’re a good Christian man, now. You get to feel like shit for everything.”
“Funny thing for a priest to say,” Aethalbad grumbled.
“You asked for me for a reason,” the priest reminded him. “Are you ready?”
“I don’t know where I’m going,” the old king confessed. He felt fear writhing in his stomach, and did not know how he could confess it to a man who seemed incapable of true feeling. He was old and his knees hurt. He was ready to admit that he was afraid.
“Probably hell,” the priest offered. “I saw you kill a rabid dog once. You said it reminded you of your raids on the churches. Putting down dogs.”
“I should tell you to fuck off, too,” Aethalbad said.
“Bury your swords, appease your demons, then sleep,” the priest said. “Or do tell me to fuck off and die with your whores. You don’t have to find God before you die. He doesn’t want you.”
“They took my sons in His name,” Aethalbad protested. “This is their sacred ground, their legacy. They’ve buried the treasures of their lives here, the gold and fine work of their best men. They buried their hoard where they slaughtered us. I should have stabbed their king in his fat gut when I shared his table.”
The priest lapsed into a rare silence. Aethalbad stared at the grave. A sinister rumble sounded from around them, vibrating as though it came from deep within the earth rather than from the violently dark sky above them.
“Are you ready?” the priest finally spoke again.
Aethalbad sighed. Groaning, and with great difficulty, he rose to his feet.
“I am.”
The priest began.
“I will keep it simple, for you are very old. I fear we do not have much time. “On this fifth day of July, on the day that Pothric, your first son, died as a Pagan, we bear witness to the christening of the warrior king, Aethalbad, in the name of Lord God. You and your son are reborn as servants of God.”
“I wrote that myself,” he bragged. “Had to. Not much precedence for buying your dead son’s soul with your life.”
Aethalbad smiled grimly. He stooped to pick up his sword from the heap. The priest thought he was old, that he intended to die of his age. Aethalbad had no such intention. Many of the men who had slain his sons had died, old men all. Their children remained, however, and the old men who survived would lose all faith in the continuation of their glory.
He would bring a plague to them, would bring a future of clashing swords, endless feuds, of blood that would change the color of the oceans. He would see the end of their fine kingdoms with a rot that would spread throughout their futures. With the sacrifice of his faith and his life, he would buy a dark future with his blood.
“What are you-“
“Your God likes sacrifice, doesn’t he?” Aethalbad asked. “Bury me with my son, under the hanging tree.”
He slid his sword into his heart’s embrace.
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Challenge: Write historical fiction about a date over 25 years ago, and include the date of July 5'th.
I wrote (loosely) about the Staffordshire Hoard, a humongous Anglo-Saxon hoard that was found in 2009. It was, as a bonus, discovered on July 5'th, though the story takes place entirely in a wonderfully historically inaccurate setting, somewhere towards the end of the ninth century. I'm worried I didn't it clear enough that he was cursing the owners of the hoard, and the hoard itself.
Word count: 998
Character death to date: 6
(Because I didn't count all the dead vikings. They were rude and fictional, and none of them were actively in the story.)
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This was full of great images. Very grim tone, fit for the time.